Dolled Up
by Caness
Summary: Peter is in a dress. Nathan angsts. Petrellicest and Plaude.
1. All Dolled Up

Title: Dolled Up  
Rating: PG-13  
Pairing/Characters: Nathan, Peter (Petrellicest hints)  
Word Count: 768  
Warnings: controversial issue (coughtranssexualitycough), general weirdness, AU  
Note: Okay, so this is my very odd take on your prompt of "brotherly love." I hope you don't think I am hopelessly insane strike because I am /strike . But, come on, who doesn't love Milo in a dress?

Peter had always been _pretty _as a child.

His large brown eyes and angular features had set him up for failure since day one.

Nathan, by dramatic contrast, while also freakishly angular, was the epitome of masculinity.

At twelve, Nathan was devastated to find that he was getting a little brother. He had been enjoying his rather lavish lifestyle as the one true heir of the Petrelli estate before Peter came along, and in warped child logic he wished he could banish his brother to a far away place.

He accepted Peter's birth as a harsh fact of his reality, and took his coming stoically as Father had taught him to. He was a Petrelli, and the Petrellis were all about appearances.

Despite this, Nathan did love Peter, if only for his unabashed curiosity and his complete disregard for his namesake.

He loved him enough that when he vaulted into the room wearing a dress, he managed not only to keep a straight face, but to catch him without spilling his drink.

"Happy birfday, Nat'an!" Peter had cried, embracing Nathan with all the strength he could muster in those little arms.

Nathan stared; one of Angela Petrelli's jersey cocktail dresses from her younger years clung awkwardly to the small boy, trailing behind him comically.

That little incident was never publicized…

Nathan may have loved Peter, but that didn't prevent him from exiling the younger child at every possible opportunity. He pretended not to notice as Peter slowly turned away from him, disappearing into Mom's closet deeper every day.

At age eighteen Nathan left for bootcamp and didn't look back. During his six years in the service, he and Peter rarely spoke, and the elder only returned on holidays.

While Peter growing up had always been vivacious and chatty, when Nathan came he seemed unresponsive, nearly catatonic.

The soldier snapped his smooth brown eyes up in surprise, a faint clacking noise echoing on the granite. Peter was wearing _heels _and Nathan could not have been more concerned.

The paparazzi would eat this up, he thought bemusedly. The Petrellis owned the east coast, and their youngest son, their prodigy, was walking around in women's shoes.

Nathan left the armed forces in '92 and went straight into law school. He ignored Peter's jibes when he was rejected from Yale despite his father's status as an alumnus. Secretly, though, he was glad for Colombia. It was closer to home.

He kept tabs on Peter: his friends, his studies, his hobbies, and even his potent ional girlfriends, of which there were a startling few.

Every now and then, he had seen Peter through the window, evening gown held up to his slight frame as he examined his reflection with world-weary eyes.

Peter came to the graduation ceremony looking hollow and thin, wearing ambiguously gendered clothing that hugged his every inch. Nathan delivered a touching, if hasty, speech as valedictorian, following his brother with hawk-eyes all the while.

Two years pass and Peter is eighteen now. When he gets a phone call from Mom, Nathan feels an age settle into his bones that he had never felt before. He has to go over straight away—Peter's getting ready for Prom.

Nathan never went to his own prom.

Just as he closes the large oak doors behind him, he sees a flutter of lace and his breath catches. Peter fairly _flows _down the staircase, dangerously high sandals sounding on each step. He lands at the base with the graceful thud of both heels clicking together, encased in satin and taffeta. He should look ridiculous.

Nathan draws his eyes up Peter's form, taking in every makeshift curve; lingering on every pronounced angle. The youth is a bundle of nerves, fidgeting with the pucker of fabric at his hip, and yet he meets Nathan's eyes with a steady gaze, catching them as they wander. The attorney wets his lips and attempts to smile; knows he's failed horribly.

"Nate, I—"

"Pete, I—"

Their words skirt around each other, staccato as they mirror the truth, and Nathan's look is deer in headlights through and through. Peter's chuckle is harsh and warm all at once, and Nathan knows he's been missing this.

"I'll save you a dance," Peter says, brushing past his stricken sibling, and the smile is sincere.

Nathan can't quite wrap his head around the statement as a silky gloved hand brushes his, the teasingly soft words reassuring him for reasons he can't hope to explain.

He thinks in the eerie silence following Peter's exit that he may just have take him up on his offer.


	2. Chocolate Icing

Dolled Up II: Chocolate Icing

Softly plinking piano keys create lilting tones that settle over the pair like shifting sand, getting in their eyes and landing on their clothes as they move. Dusting fingerprints drive Nathan to distraction and he's battling not to tighten his grip around the slender hips. He feels the sand surround them, thickening the air; leaving wine-like lethargy to hang about, making the space appear vaguely mauve. Nathan smiles as the same crimson color tinges Peter's cheeks; turns silken fabric nearly periwinkle. Ruffles touch against his suit in fleeting brushes as Peter presses closer; steps faster, squeezing his brother's forearm; dragging across the shoulder of his sport jacket with delicate digits enveloped in blue.

Nathan inhales deeply, rubbing his thumb in cyclic motions against one satin-clad hipbone, his eyelids lowering as the clean scent of _belonging _overpowers his senses. He should feel guilty when a sloppy kiss makes its way to his lips, teeth grazing skin in an awkward show of desperation. He should feel guilty that it feels like benediction. He focuses on making slow, languid strokes with his tongue, gaining access to Peter's mouth; plundering the confines. He should feel guilty at the small noises of wanting _loathing _that are elicited by his actions; by Peter grappling at his back, bringing them into a crushing embrace; by the way his brother is shaking against him. He feels nothing of the sort.

He tastes cream and _home_ on warm lips and he knows this is the end of him; knows this is absolution. Peter is backing up and Nathan panics, tries to pull away, stuttered apology already coming to his lips, but he is being tugged backwards—towards the stairs; their kiss becoming urgent. He realizes what the clever teen is attempting and stifles an ironic laugh and an inane urge to sweep Peter into his arms and fly up the staircase at once. He settles for tearing their mouths apart, and it truly is an effort. Peter's eyes are glassy and wide as his gloved fingers encircle Nathan's wrist in a light grasp that mirrors the possessiveness in his brother's gut. When Peter's fingers tighten he can feel the instinct contract, tying his stomach in knots as they race to the bedrooms. More accurately though, Nathan is dragged along, dumbstruck by the surreal scene he seems to have been typecast into.

They blunder into Nathan's childhood room, and the older man finds himself against one very blue door covered by one very blue individual. Lace and taffeta scratch against smooth linen as Peter's lips crush his once more, the younger man swallowing Nathan's cries as his back arcs and his hands clutch at the sharp jaw. Peter breaks the contact abruptly; Nathan lets out a small noise in protest even as he feels those young lips trailing down his neck, tongue darting out to lave his pulse. He reaches out to hold Peter there, but the boy slips out of his grasp, moving to shrug him out of his jacket, rip off his tie in a way that nearly strangles him, and start in on too-many buttons with less-than-articulate fingers that fumble and slide silkily across his chest. Nathan shudders.

There is no returning from this point as those glove-clad fingers ghost over him, waking up every inch of him: his body, heart and soul. It is a dangerously powerful experience that Nathan allows himself to get lost in when he knows he shouldn't, inhaling sharply when his brother's naїve fingers find the closure to his slacks.

Peter slides Nathan out with clinical ease, satin dragging along the length. If ever he had doubted his brother for his current career path as a male nurse, he can't any longer. He gives in that last inch, letting out a low and guttural moan—becoming half-hard immediately. The boy looks up at his brother, eyes sparkling with mirth; a slapdash smile plastered to his face crookedly. _He should look ridiculous. _But he doesn't, makeup smeared; dress hanging off his shoulder awkwardly and Nathan can't even think the word "ridiculous".

_Beautiful, always beautiful, Pete, _he thinks, winding his hands in Peter's hair—not pushing, but resting; stroking.

Slowly, hesitantly, a tongue darts out to meet the head and all Nathan can feel is _silk_ from every angle, and it smothers him.

Years go by, and while Peter still bears the pretty face of childhood Nathan sees senescence setting in all too quickly. His brother is almost eighteen, and the revelation shocks him; did he look that old on his graduation day? He watches Peter with owl-eyes as his face splits into an ecstatic lopsided grin and he tosses his hat into the crowd. Nathan can't help the small smile that tugs at the corners of his lips. Peter just looks so _happy_.

After all have gone home and all has been said, Peter is quite exhausted, and Nathan is even more exhausted from observing Peter become exhausted.

"Nate, I think I'm going to turn in." Peter flashes a hint of that bright smile from earlier. Nathan feels a sharp twinge in his chest that he is more prepared to accredit to the onset of old age and heart disease than its true origin. The boy _man _raises his arms above his head in a cat-like stretch, jaw falling open into a satisfying yawn; droplets of saline gather and well at the corners of his eyes and Nathan sees the child in him again. He couldn't be more relieved.

When Peter's half-lidded eyes refocus, Nathan is standing very close—too close even. Their breath mingles for a single, timeless beat and the taller man looms forward. A rough kiss falls on Peter's brow.

"Congratulations, Pete." Nathan allows his face to crinkle slightly, some sliver of his true emotion shining through. His brother returns the gesture, soft lips landing on a hollow cheek and he is almost surprised. He needs more contact; grabs Peter's hips firmly, but not forcefully, bringing them flush against his own in a tight embrace.

Peter's head drops to Nathan's shoulder as he wraps his arm about his older brother's torso. They stay there for long moments, no thoughts between them as he strokes Peter's back, large hands sliding up the back of the unassuming heather grey Class of '98 tee. Peter hums contentedly, breath hitching whenever the cool gold of Nathan's ring catches his bare flesh.

Peter's gasping pulls at something deep inside Nathan that has lain dormant for nearly two years. That familiar need for flesh; for _connection _washes over him, imbuing next-to-uncontrollable desire in his loins. His lightly calloused hands move over Peter's shoulder blades, tangling in his hair. Nathan frowns.

He doesn't find silk there, but wiry, course fibers that make his fingers itch. Peter looks to his brother expectantly; Nathan's stomach knots. He leans forward abruptly, pressing his lips awkwardly to the now-legal teen's. Peter murmurs something, but it fades as Nathan deepens the kiss, his hold on reality tenuous at best; his hold on Peter fierce and almost suffocating.

Peter's eyes grow wide and he's pushing away, not shoving, but gently unwinding himself from his brother's grip. "What are you doing, Nathan?" he whispers, tone dripping with concern for the older man.

"I-I… y-you…" Nathan begins, but what could he say? 'I thought you wanted your nearly-twice-your-age _brother _to **molest **you' would hardly go over well. "Prom night," he finally manages, grasping at straws.

"Prom night?" Peter cocks his head to the side, long hair sifting with the movement. His brow furrows as he delves deep into thought. "I was drunk that night."

Nathan suddenly feels like ice. "D-drunk," his lips stumble over the words.

Peter backs up, but places a hand on his shoulder. "Why, Nate?" The eighteen-year-old's voice raises an octave too high. "What happened?"

_Awaking in a rumpled prom dress, makeup smeared down his pillow. Peter had the worst hangover of his life. _

The same ice seems to manifest itself as fingers, grasping Peter's throat; making him nauseous. "You…"

And Nathan realizes that Peter is not his to covet, that he will someday lose him to another; that he will have to stand by and watch.


	3. Will Him Not

Large hands will settle on narrow hips, thinking they are invisible to watchful eyes. Rough palms will smooth over buttery silk and even smoother skin, eliciting gasps and wriggles that will bring forth unbidden sense-memory. He will cringe, unable to stop watching them from the shadows. He will still have a campaign trail to blaze and a future to instil, but he will always have time for Peter because Peter is _his. _

The young man will nearly cry out as he clutches at the invisible man's trenchcoat, ecstasy etched in his sharp features. Nathan's fingers will itch to touch, biting back a moan of frustration as the bearded man will phase in and out of visibility—leaving his brother on display and so _inviting. _His body will remember what that warmth felt like, and it will be torture.

The scene before him will go dim, the two men becoming mere shadows on the wall; strewn clothing on the ground. The black slip-of-a-dress will mock him coldly, causing him to ball his fists at his side. He will be happy for Peter because Peter would be happy for him. He will compose himself and walk away calmly.

Him and Peter had been brothers, were brothers, are brothers, and would always be _brothers. _Nathan could not afford to lose that; he cannot; he will not.


End file.
